While I bit back an angry retort about allowing the poor girl to lead her own life, I did say in language the nun might relate to, “I find walking alone through the silence of a forest is like being in a cathedral. You feel that much closer to the creator of its majesty. Perhaps that was all your sister was doing.”
Although Yvette’s eyes shone gratefully, Soeur Yvonne’s darkened eyes flashed me a message that no devout nun should ever think, let alone express. With her lips pursed in disapproval, Soeur Yvonne left the table to retrieve the coffeepot and hot milk from the woodstove.
While she refilled my bowl, I wondered again how I was going to get Yvette alone. Clearly the girl wouldn’t speak in front of this domineering nun, nor did I want her to. Moreover, it was evident that the older woman was making her anxious, for Yvette continued to break her pastry into smaller and smaller pieces, making no attempt to eat them. I suspected that her sister, not the pain from her injuries, was the reason for this setback. Perhaps it would be better for me to leave and have Yvette phone me later when her sister was out of the way.
Resuming her chair next to Yvette, Soeur Yvonne said, “I believe the police arrest one of these poor young men from the Indian reserve.”
“It’s a mistake. He didn’t do it.” I took a slow sip of the hot coffee, then continued, “John-Joe has asked me to help him.”
At the mention of John-Joe’s name, Yvette gripped her coffee bowl so hard that it made me wonder if he wasn’t the reason for her call.
“In Montreal, at the hospice, we see many such poor lost souls,” her older sister continued. “These Indians are like children. They need the strong guidance of our dear Lord. No doubt, this young man’s heathen lusts make him kill this innocent Catholic girl.”
My anger already set to a simmer, now boiled. “Heathen? He has more—”
A shout for Soeur Yvonne from the front of the house cut me off. The nun immediately got up from the table and went to her father.
When the kitchen door closed behind her sister’s starched back, Yvette sprang into life. “John-Joe does not do such a terrible thing.”
“Do you know something? Is that why you called me?”
Her eyes opened in shock. “Moi? Non. Mais…” And she dropped her eyes down as if embarrassed. “He is very nice man. He is kind to me. And she was a bad girl.”
“I’m with you on that. What do you know about Chantal?”
“My sister is wrong. I see Chantal before. In this house.”
“Here? In your father’s house?”
“Oui. She comes for a visit. She kiss Yves.”
“Sounds like Chantal. Pierre was another one of her friends. Do you know anything about him?”
She glanced anxiously towards the door, then inserted her uninjured hand into her bathrobe pocket and pulled out an envelope. “I find this.” She thrust it towards me. “It belongs to Pierre.”
Hearing footsteps approaching, I grabbed it and hastily put it into my jeans pocket. “Is this why you phoned me?”
“Yes. It is the reason I go on the trail. I search for Pierre to give it to him. It is perhaps important. I think.”
The door whisked open, and in strode Yvette’s sister with her scowling father. Yvette retreated into her shell. I stood up. Time to leave.
Muttering my thanks, I slipped on my sweater, jacket and hat and escaped from the stifling house as fast as I could. So strong was my desire to get away from the oppression that I didn’t even pause to look at the envelope Yvette had given me.
I did, however, manage to back my truck far enough around the farmhouse, so I could peer into the yard behind. If Yves was still there, I would stop to say hello, but the yard was empty, his shiny black car gone. Feeling disheartened not only by the visit, but also at having missed Yves, I slipped the truck into gear and drove down the long narrow lane away from a farm that had taken on the guise of a prison.
fifteen
The crumpled brown envelope lay like forbidden fruit on my kitchen table. While my conscience was telling me not to open it, my curiosity was. Sealed with several layers of scotch tape, the name on the front declared it belonged to Pierre Fournier.
I balanced it in the palm of my hand. It had weight. It had thickness, suggesting it contained something other than a letter. The underside was smudged with dirt, as if it had been on the ground. Perhaps Yvette had found it lying on the trail. But it wasn’t obvious why she thought it important or why she tied it to Chantal’s murder.
I held it up to the sunlight but gleaned nothing through the opaque paper. I shook it. The contents slid back and forth like a thick piece of cardboard. One edge of the tape was starting to lift. I nudged it further but lost my nerve when the paper started to peel.
Maybe I should hand the envelope over to the police. But if nothing connected it directly to Chantal’s murder, what use would it serve?
I could open it. But say it contained something personal for Pierre, something that had absolutely nothing to do with Chantal or her death? What would I do then? Hand it over with profuse apologies about invading his privacy?
My dilemma was solved by an unexpected phone call.
“What ya want?” said a gum-cracking female voice in French. Momentarily confused, I said in English, “Who’s this?” then repeated the question again in French.
“Thérèse. Ya left a message,” she replied in English with barely a trace of a accent other than the slight twang of an Ottawa Valley native.
Thérèse? I didn’t know any Thérèse, then I suddenly remembered. “Thanks for calling back. I want to speak with Pierre Fournier. Is he there?”
“What do ya want ’im for?” Good. John-Joe hadn’t given me the wrong number. I looked at the envelope in my hand. “I have something for him.”
“What?”
“An envelope, small brown one.”
“What ya doing with that?”
“Someone gave it to me.”
“That bitch?”
“Bitch” would never be a word to describe Yvette. “Not sure who you mean?”
“Chantal, that fancy-ass bitch. Is the money still there?”
“Is that what’s inside?”
“Yeah, Pierre’s money. Spoiled brat ran off with it, eh?”
This she punctuated with a particularly loud snap of her gum. The envelope did have the kind of solid feel that a wad of dollar bills would provide. “Is it a cheque or cash?”
“Cash. They don’t use cheques, eh?”
“Who’s they?” But she ignored my question. Instead, she said, “Pierre wants it real bad. Tell me where ya live, and I’ll come get it.” There was no way I was going to pass this envelope of money into the hands of this cud-chewing broad. “Is Pierre there?” I asked.
“He wants his money. Just tell me where ya live, okay?”
I was beginning to wonder who needed the money more, Thérèse or Pierre. “I want to speak to Pierre. If he’s not in, have him call me.”
She didn’t even bother to reply, just cracked her gum and banged the phone down, leaving me convinced she had no intention of passing the message on to him. I would have to call back later in the hope of having the man himself answer the phone.
Although the envelope was now linked to Chantal, I wasn’t